


Everybody Gets Tired Sometimes

by Bluejay141519



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 3k worth of angst, Author is Shit, Exhaustion, Here we go, I don't really go into detail here tho, M/M, Nightmares, eventual bed sharing, im still working on fics instead of finals YOURE ALL WELCOME, one day I will learn how to write fluff, sleep issues, today is not that day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-16 10:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16952394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluejay141519/pseuds/Bluejay141519
Summary: “How’s he doing?” Zee asks quietly as they gear up. Bergy glances across the abnormally lackluster locker room to watch Marchy walk towards his stall. Every part of his body seems to exude tiredness, from the slump of his shoulders and drooping eyelids to the way his feet almost seem to drag as moves.He sighs and shakes his head. “Not good.” He whispers back.





	Everybody Gets Tired Sometimes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blindbatalex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/gifts).



> And I Quote “you seem to like bed sharing (aka my favorite trope)”
> 
> For you my guy, I give you a crap pile of angst written while on cold medication. this...may not make sense. Please enjoy nonetheless.

 

 

\-----

 

_“Stop pretending you’re okay, because I know you’re not.”_

 

\----

 

“How’s he doing?” Zee asks quietly as they gear up. Bergy glances across the abnormally lackluster locker room to watch Marchy walk towards his stall. Every part of his body seems to exude tiredness, from the slump of his shoulders and drooping eyelids to the way his feet almost seem to drag as moves.

 

There’s no chirping, no stupid comments about two touch, none of the giddy, boundless excitement that he’s known for. The team has noticed, because while they’re mostly a bunch of emotionally stunted hockey players, they’re not _that_ oblivious. The locker room hasn’t held it’s normal atmosphere for over two weeks now, and even Pasta is having a hard time smiling these days.

 

It’s been like this for a while now. The nightmares started soon after Patrice got hurt, and, well, they never really went away. But recently they’ve been getting worse, and Bergy can’t figure out why. It worries him, though. He’s never seen them drag Brad down like this.

 

He sighs and shakes his head. “Not good.” He whispers back.

 

Zee doesn’t say anything else, but there’s a tightness around the Captain's eyes that wasn’t quite as visible before.

 

They head out to practice without another word.

 

\--------------

 

“Brad-”

 

“I’m fine.” Bergy sighs, watching as his boyfriend flits around the kitchen, touching some things almost sporadically. He puts his book down and stands from the couch, walking slowly to the kitchen.

 

“Did you sleep at all last night?”

 

Brad doesn’t turn around. Instead, he braces himself against the countertop, back to Patrice.

 

It’s enough of an answer. “Marchy, _please_.”

 

Marchand shakes his head after a second. “I can’t keep watching y- it.” He says softly.

 

Patrice sighs again, and says a quiet goodnight. They don’t share a kiss, and they don’t touch, and they don’t do anything that used to do, because now Brad won’t let Patrice get anywhere near him. Every time they make eye contact Marchy’s eyes will flash with fear, and then he’s looking away. He doesn’t think Brad’s intentionally looked at him more than once since it all started.

 

He knows it’s got to do with him. He _knows_ they do. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have started right after his injury, and they wouldn’t make his boyfriend unable to even be in the same room as him.

 

He goes to bed on his side of the king mattress, leaving a space for Brad like he always does, because he always inevitably goes to sleep earlier.

 

Except the next morning, he wakes up to a cold pillow and sheets that haven’t been disturbed.

 

For the fourth day in a row.

 

\------------

 

“This was a stupid fucking idea.” Patrice grouches over his beer, glaring out at the rest of the guys who are mingling around the bar. Tuukka grunts in agreement, having also been dragged out of his hotel room by an over enthusiastic group of rookies, who, quote, “want to make sure the old guys have fun once in a while.”

 

They’re they last two left in the booth, and while it’s only been an hour, Patrice can feel himself slipping a little. Unfortunately getting a little drunk has not helped to brighten his sour mood at all.  Hell, If anything it’s made it worse.

 

Pasta waltzes by the table, only stopping to chirp them and put two glasses of water on the table before he’s off again. He almost looks like he’s _skipping._

 

He opens his mouth to complain again, but then he sees the dark expression on Tuukka's face as the goalie’s eyes track Pasta all the way to a random blond, and he decides to choose life and shut his mouth.

 

He finishes the last of his beer, and then starts on the water, because if he wants to go back to the hotel he certainly doesn’t want to be half drunk while walking there. The two of them sit in silence for a while, Patrice stewing in his worry and anger and Rask glaring darkly at the wall opposite him.

 

Eventually though, the wonderful peace breaks.

 

“What the fuck is up with Marchand?” Rask snaps, and Bergy suspects it’s anger at himself that’s being severely misdirected that makes his tone so harsh, rather than actual anger at Brad.

 

He sighs, and tries to force himself to remember that, and not get defensive. “I don’t know.”

 

Rask moves his glare from the poor wall to Patrice. “Are you not dating him anymore?”

 

He narrows his eyes. “Of course we’re still dating-”

 

“Then how do you not know?”

 

“Well shit Rask, I’ve been so busy lately I missed our weekly sit down session where we read to each other from out diaries and braid each other’s hair.” He snarls sarcastically, the alcohol mixing with pent up worry and stress to make his patience especially thin. “I told you- I _don’t know_. He won’t tell me anything.”

 

Tuukka must hear something in his tone, or at least recognize that he’s pushed a little too far, because he softens his glare a little so Patrice doesn’t exactly feel like he’s about to spontaneously combust. There’s a small moment of silence between them, whatever tension there draining away as quickly as it was built.

 

Tuuks seems not to know how to continue the conversation, because he ends up just stating the obvious. “He’s not sleeping.”

 

“Nope.” Patrice pops the ‘p’ and takes a sip of water. “Or if he is, he’s doing an incredibly small amount of it, and not in a normal bed.” ‘ _Not with me’,_ goes unsaid after. “I can’t get him to talk about it. I can’t even get him to look at me, so I really don’t know how to fix this.”

 

Tuukka just nods and finishes his drink and then-

 

“Well, this may just be the alcohol in my system saying this.” He puts down the empty scotch class and reaches for a water. “And god above I never thought I’d have to say it, but...”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “But what?” He asks when Tuuks stares into the water glass for long enough that he doesn’t seem to be continuing.

 

“Have you tried calling Segs?”

 

\------------

 

“ _Bergy!!! You still love me!!”_

 

“Fucking unfortunately.” He growls, leaning back to look out into the living room. Marchy is wandering around doing...something, he can tell. “Look I don’t have a lot of time so please for the love of god make this quick.”

 

_“Boy have I heard that one before-”_

 

“God damn it Segs-”

 

_“Heard that before too-”_

 

“Tyler!” He snaps, because this is why you don’t ever, ever talk to Tyler Seguin on the phone. Luckily he played with the kid for three years, and if there’s one way to get him to shut up, it’s using his first name.

 

There’s a pause.

 

“ _Who’s hurt and what happened.”_ The response is such a 180 degree turn that Patrice actually has a hard time connecting the serious, deep tone of voice with the image of the kid he once knew.

 

“No one’s hurt. Well- sorta. Technically.”

 

_“Really not selling this whole ‘everyone’s okay’ thing very well Bergy.”_ Patrice sighs and decides to duck into the bathroom.

 

“It’s about Marchy.”

 

“ _What happened?!”_ He winces at the panic in Seggy's voice, and wishes he could reassure him, but he can barely reassure himself, and he’s never wanted to lie Segs.

 

“He isn’t sleeping. He won’t tell me why, I just know he’s having nightmares, and they’re more than likely about me.”

 

_“Because of when you got hurt?”_

 

“They started after that, yeah.”

 

_“So you’re calling me because…”_

 

“You guys were close when you- and I was- well during-”

 

_“The pining years.”_ Tyler cuts off his stammering. _“Ah, such a fun time.”_

 

Patrice blinks, surprised. “He was pining?”

 

_“You both were, good try. Anyway, you called me because he’s having nightmares again?”_

 

“Again?! As in he had them- when-”

 

“ _Oh my god, we weren’t- never mind.”_ Tyler mutters something away from the phone that on a normal would have Bergy asking him to repeat it, but he’s still on borrowed time, so he lets it slide. _“Okay listen- official story, I have no idea what you’re talking about, you’re dating him not me, I can’t help you.”_

 

“Unofficial?”

 

_“Physical contact can usually help him down from a nightmare, even if he doesn’t wake up. If the nightmares are about you, talking to him is gonna help as well.”_ Tyler says it in a way that makes Patrice think there’s definitely some history there, but he’s not in the mood to question it.

 

“You assume I can get him to sleep.”

 

_“You’re fucking Patrice Bergeron. I think you might be able to manage to get your boyfriend in bed with you. Drag him there is you have to.”_

 

“You-” The call cuts off with a click, and Patrice stares at his phone in disbelief.

 

“Bergy?”

 

“In here!” He calls, still staring at his phone as Marchand walks in.

 

“We’re gonna be late.” Brad frowns at him. “What happened?”

 

“Seggy’s still a little shit.” He replies, pocketing his phone. Marchy huffs but doesn’t dispute it, at least, and Patrice follows him back into the living room to put on his shoes and not so subtly steal the keys. Hell if he’s ever going to let brad get behind the wheel of a car right now.

 

He doesn’t have time to argue with Brad right now though. He’s got to plan.

 

\------------------

 

It takes a little while to get it ready, what with the many excused Brad manages, and since Patrice is maybe a little bit of a coward when it comes to forcing Marchy to do things, he knows that when he finally gets around to it he has to have all the angles covered.

 

It’s with a lot of consideration, then, that he decides to do it on the road. It’ll be much harder for Brad to run, what with no car, no couch to pretend to sleep on, and Ottowa being exactly zero degrees Fahrenheit when they touch down in the morning. Throughout the day, Patrice slyly lets Zee know about his plan, and the Captain graciously promises to help, which is good, because this only works if he can force Marchand to stay in the room with him. His teammates have to be unavaible for once in their lives.

 

They have a weird set of days off, two in a row before the game, and Patrice can see exactly how close Brad is to breaking. He falls asleep on Pasta’s shoulder during the bus tour that the guys get, and when they practice he barely talks, even when spoken too. He looks so exhausted the trainers actually pull him aside after practice, but when Bergy meets him afterward to go back to the hotel, he just snaps at Patrice and tells him to drop it.

 

Patrice almost doesn’t know which is worse - the guilt he feels for letting it go this far, or the guilt he feels for what he’s about to do. Brad hates confrontation of the ice. And he hates being forced into things. And he especially hates when he’s got to talk about emotions.

 

Bergy is just so glad he’s about to make him do all three.

 

The bus ride is quiet. Most of the rookies are not-so-subtly planning to go out, but a majority of the guys are looking forward to an easy night in. It’s not so difficult then to get Marchy up to their shared room, and he waits until they’re both semi-unpacked and settled before gathering his courage. He’s sitting on the bed, fiddling with the cap of his water bottle, while Brad is leaning against the wall opposite him pretending to be busy with his phone.

 

He knows what’s coming then. Great.

 

“So.” He starts, then winces. Smooth. So smooth. His middle name is smooth.

 

His middle name is ‘constantly fucking shit up’.

 

Brad just sighs. “Please- can we not?”

 

Bergy raises an eyebrow, not surprised in the least that Marchand can at least assume what he’s trying to do. “Ah, no. We’re definitely going to.”

 

“No, we really aren’t.”

 

“And why not?”

 

“Because there’s nothing- are we even talking about the same thing?”

 

“Well, what thing are you talking about?” Because Patrice can see his deflection clear as day, and he’s not about to let him get away with it. Sure enough, Brad’s face colors slightly, and he waves a hand in the air between them.

 

“This- this- whatever bullshit you have planned to make me spill my guts or whatever. I don’t need it. I’m fine.”

 

“Really?” He asks, incredulous at the denial that’s still present in Brad's voice. “That’s not what the trainers told me when I went to get you after practice today. Because according to them, you’re one more sleepless night away from passing out from exhaustion and putting yourself in the hospital. So I would think that would qualify as being _not_ fine. In fact, you’re almost the exact opposite of fine.”

 

He sits there, on the bed, hoping for Brad to finally tell him and waiting for the excuse not to.

 

“You know what, I think I’m gonna stay with Pasta tonight.” Patrice sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. That hurts, but he at least he figured it was coming. He knows it’s not- it’s not that Marchy doesn’t trust him, it’s that whatever is happening is something that Brad is trying to deal with on his own, and he doesn’t want to admit that he can’t.

 

So, for maybe the thousandth time, he reminds himself of that, and barely holds back the snapping reply that would probably lead to the end of their relationship. Instead, he takes a deep breath, and very calmly explains that _no one_ on the team is going to let him room with them.

 

“You told them?!” Brad hisses, so very angry, but Patrice just holds his gaze with what he’s sure is false bravado.

 

“I didn’t say a word. Z told everyone that you were rooming with me tonight, and did so in a way that suggested if anyone proved him wrong, there’d be hell to pay.” He pauses. “They noticed, Marchy. They know you’re not okay. _We’re_ not okay.”

 

Brad says nothing back, instead dropping his eyes to the floor and leaning back against the wall, arms wrapped around himself. He sighs.

 

“Are you really that afraid of telling me?” He murmurs, feeling his heart ache horribly at the thought. ‘ _It’s not about trust.’_ He reminds himself sternly. It’s about what Brad can admit to himself.

 

“No- yes? I don’t-” Marchand lifts his head and waves a hand in the air, like he’s trying to get his thoughts together. He’s looking to the side, staring at the window, but Bergy can still see the tears that are gathering his eyes. “I know it’s stupid, okay?”

 

“It’s _not_ stupid.” He protests immediately, standing and stepping closer to Marchy. “Not if it’s making you afraid to sleep.” He softens as Brad swipes at his eyes. “I know you’re having nightmares. And I know they’re about me.”

 

He’s close enough now that he can see in full detail what the lack of rest has done to Marchy. Pale skin and dark, dark bruises, hazy, slightly dilated eyes full of tiredness, slouching posture and shaky hands. He can even see it as his breath hitches when Patrice talks.

 

“Please, Marchy. Please talk to me. I can’t watch you hurt yourself like this. I gave you space, but I love you too much to let it go on.”

 

It seems that’s the straw that breaks the camels back, so to speak, because Brad lets out a sob. He covers his mouth immediately afterward, trying to stifle it, shaking his head. It doesn’t work, because he sobs again, and then again, and then he’s leaning into Bergy’s chest, the taller of the two gathering him into his arms.

 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, holding Brad close, clinging to his smaller frame. “I’m sorry that you see me hurt every time you sleep, I’m sorry that you couldn’t tell me, I’m sorry that I couldn’t help you, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Marchy.” He shifts a little and presses his lips to his lover's hair. Marchy shudders in his hold, and he feels his shirt dampening with tears.

 

“Oh _mon amour_ ,” He murmurs, rubbing a hand up and down Marchands back. “Let me help you.”

 

“I don’t know how.” Comes the broken cry, muffles by his position. “I don’t know what to do- I love you so much Patrice, and I see you, and all I can think about is- what if you didn’t make it, what if-”

 

“I _did_.” He says fiercely. “You hear me? I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine, I’m right here. And I’m never ever going to leave you so long as I can help it. You can’t focus on the what-if’s babe, you know you can’t.” Marchy shakes his head against his chest, still crying, but pulls back a little.

 

“I know- I _know_ , I know I can’t, and I thought- once we got together, it was okay, I had you, but then you got hurt again, and I just- I remember turning around, and there you were, on the ice, and I was so angry, but so _scared-_ ”

 

Marchy sniffles, moving a hand up to his face to wipe at his tears. Patrice catches the hand, and replaces it with his own, two hands cupping his face, gently thumbing away the tears. They’re so close, sharing the same breath. He waits until Brad meets his eyes, and then slowly places a gentle kiss to his lips. It tastes like salt and sorrow, but _oh,_ does it make Patrice feel whole inside.

 

He's missed Brad so much, and he didn’t realize how scared he was of losing him to this until right now, when he knows that he can still keep Brad next to him.

 

“It’s okay.” He whispers, pulling back just the slightest. “It’s okay. I’m right here. I love you so much, Bradley Kevin, I can’t even put it into words.”

 

He takes one of Marchy’s hands and presses it to his chest, right above his heart. “I’m right here. You feel that? I’m right here.” He’s silent for a few moments, waiting until Brad nods before pulling him back to his chest. “I’m right here, love, and I’m not going anywhere.”

 

They end up in bed, sometime later when they’ve both cried themselves out. It’s just barely nine at night, but there they lay, curled in the bed by the windows, the curtains drawn. Patrice is on his back, Brad at his side curled into the Alternates side with one hand still resting on his chest, feeling the beating of his boyfriend's heart as he watches the city lights glitter coldy outside.

 

The room is silent, save for their breathing and the hum of the AC kicking on to warm the room. Bergy stares at the ceiling, counting Marchy’s breathing and gently rubbing his thumb over the small man’s shoulder until somehow, eventually, he finds that Marchy is breathing slower, even, peaceful breathes, his body totally relaxed against Patrice’s.

 

Only then does he close his eyes, and let himself rest for the first time since this all started, safe with the knowledge that they’re okay.

 

That they’re both going to be okay.

 

\----------------------

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Will I ever be able to write about the Bruins without thinking about Seggy??? Probably not!!! #sorrynotsorry
> 
> Also, I have a bunch of one sentence dialogue prompt, but if anyone wants something, pls drop it in the comments and I will see what I can do!


End file.
